


Stuck in the Middle with You

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Pre-Slash, World War II, cuddly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:00:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22686628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: Bull likes being in the middle, and as it turns out, Johnny and Bill don’t mind one bit.OR: Some lighthearted fluff. What ya see is what ya get, folks.
Relationships: Bull Randleman/Johnny Martin/Bill Guarnere
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17
Collections: Loose Lips Sink Ships Prompt Meme





	Stuck in the Middle with You

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the Loose Lips Sink Ships prompt meme: "Bull likes to be in the middle."   
> Also, for Mucca and Arwy, who enjoy the rarest of pairs. <3 
> 
> (Title shamelessly stolen from Stealers Wheel.)

It takes ages for either one of them to notice.

They’re a bit of an unofficial trio, the three of them—Bull and Johnny and Bill. Toye’s there often enough, too, and after Normandy, so is that redheaded replacement kid from South Philly that Bill’s so damn fond of. _Who? Oh, Heffron? Yeah, bit of a wise ass, ain’t he? Reminds me of my kid brother._ Buck Compton and George Luz can be found among their usual crowd often enough, when Buck isn’t chasing skirts and Luz isn’t paling around with Perconte. But they don’t mind, the three of them. Bill’s a social animal—he devours company—, and Johnny, like so many of them, is the product of a big family. He’s used to the noise and the bodies. And while the gang’s resident farm boy might be a little more use to space and quiet, Bull finds he doesn’t mind the constant crowd so much.

Not so long as Johnny and Bill were there, of course.

The first time someone mentions it, they’re playing poker. Smokey Gordon leans forward, elbows on the table, cards fanned before his face, eyes narrowed as his gaze shifts between Johnny and Bull and Bill. Johnny’s been on a winning streak for three days, but tonight, Bull and Bill seem to be sharing the luck. “Ya know,” Smokey begins, voice none too casual. “Seems to me that one of you three—” He wags a pointed finger. “—is always winnin’. That why y’all always sit beside each other? Y’all ain’t cheatin’, are ya?”

Bill snorts. “Like I need to cheat to beat your sorry ass, Smokey!”

Johnny echoes the sentiment, then adds, “Besides, we don’t _always_ sit together.”

Later that week, a film is shown. Some funny picture that half the guys don’t even bother asking the name of. It’s been raining in Aldbourne for weeks, and the men are happy to find a way to pass the time indoors beside smoking and jerking off. Bill gets there first, lights a smoke in the dimly lit tent, eyes watching the opening credits with little interest. Johnny shows up next and plops down in the seat one over from Bill, so there’s room to spread their legs and an empty chair between them upon which to rest their elbows. Only, by the time Bull ambles up, the tent-turned-cinema is all but full, so the Arkansas native settles down between his buddies without much ado.

In the end, the film isn’t all that great, and the boys leave the tent itching for something to do.

They head for a pub just off the main street, Christenson and Malarkey trailing along, and with promises from Muck and Penkala that they would follow later. There’s a round booth in the back of the pub. Bull slides in, Bill following suit, and Johnny offers to get the first round of pints while Malarkey disappears to greet a pretty blonde sitting at the bar. Christenson helps Johnny with the drinks, and when they return to the table, Johnny waits and motions for Christenson to slide into the booth first. The taller trooper eyes the empty seat beside Bull, glance flickering briefly over the blonde sergeant. With a little smirk that Johnny doesn’t care for one goddamn bit, he declines. “You go ahead, Johnny. I insist.”

Before Johnny can ask just what the hell his friend meant by _that shit,_ Malarkey appears sporting a fat grin and a girl on each arm, and Johnny hurries to scramble inside the booth to make room for the lovely, if somewhat homely, English broads.

With a few pints to sip and pretty girls to fawn over, Johnny forgets all about the curious pattern their fellow troopers seem to have observed. He forgets, that is, until the next afternoon at chowtime, when Babe Heffron manifests at the end of their table, poised with his tray of military slop and asks, “Hey, sarge, scoot over, will ya?” while motioning for Bull to slide down the bench seat.

Before Bull can dignify the redhead’s interruption with a response, Luz perks up from across the table. “That’s gonna be a No-Can-Do, Heffron. Don’t you know? Those three always sit together.”

Johnny’s eyes narrow, immediately. “You know, that’s the third time this week that somebody’s said that shit.”

Beside Luz, Toye shrugs and mumbles through a mouthful of food, “S’cause it’s true.”

Still standing at the foot of the table, Heffron’s cheeks flush pink. “Aw, c’mon, guys. Stop pullin’ my leg.” He looks at Bull expectantly. “C’mon, sarge, ya gonna let me sit or what?”

“We’re not yanking your chain, Heffron.” Luz gives a wide grin. He aves his fork, gesturing the trio across the table. “These three ladies are attached at the hip.”

Toye nods, “Yeah, you know, like Muck and Penk and Malark.”

Bill rolls his eyes so hard that the others wonder if Hitler feels it all the way in kraut country. “No the fuck we are not. We do our own shit.”

“Oh, sure, you do. _But_ —when you _are_ together…” Once more, Luz gesticulates as if to say ‘three ducks in a row…one, two, three…’ The “fuck you” slips easily from Johnny’s mouth, though there’s little genuine heat behind it. The whole affair—the conversation, the observations—are more annoying than actually bothersome, and Johnny begins to shift down the bench himself to allow Bull room to move over so Heffron can have a seat. Yet, the Ohio native makes less than an inch’s progress when Bull shakes his head at Heffron, a touch of smile on his lips, and says, “Sorry, kid, you heard ‘em.”

Laughing raucously, Luz slides over and pats the bench beside him. “Here, Babe, you can sit with me. I’ll only bite if you ask.” He holds up his hand in a sign of surrender and promise, and Heffron plops down beside him, obviously holding his tongue about the absurdity of the seating arrangements, still clearly unsure of whether or not the noncoms were just messing with him, the new guy, the kid replacement.

After that, Johnny starts to pay attention, and sure enough, whatever be the case—trainings, truck rides, briefings, mealtimes—he always finds himself sitting with Bill and Bull. More specifically, he finds himself sitting _next_ to Bull with Bill on the farm boy’s other side. _And_ , he thinks, _just what the fuck is that about?_

It doesn’t happen by accident, either, Johnny notices.

The next week, they’re going in for a debrief about the upcoming jump. Having walked together, Bill and Johnny naturally sit together, though a nagging voice in the back of Johnny’s mind wants to sit elsewhere out of sheer spite to prove the other’s wrong. When Bull arrives, he casts his gaze about the room, searching. Blue eyes shine brilliantly when they land on Johnny’s frame, and when the farm boy immediately begins to weave his way through the throng of chairs towards them, Johnny can’t help but grin, fondly. _Dumb farm boy._

Despite the warm feeling in his chest, Johnny can’t help but go wide-eyed when Bull pulls up a chair—right between him and Bill. “All be damned…”

“What’s that?” asks Bull, the picture of total innocence, but then Winters and a few of the boys from battalion enter the tent and the briefing begins, forcing Johnny to bite his tongue until later.

When Johnny tells Bill, the Italian denies it. “Nah, no way. Bull doesn’t do that. No way we wouldn’t have noticed before now. Ya losin’ it, Johnny.” He denies it, of course, until the next time Bull nestles his way in between them, settling down shoulder-to-shoulder smack dab in the middle of Johnny and Bill, the maneuver too practiced to be a coincidence.

Naturally, Bill confronts Bull about it—in his loud and hawkish, rambunctious way—instantly. But Bull merely gives a little grin and shrugs a single shoulder as he pops yet another cigar into his mouth. “Hazard of bein’ the middle child, I suppose.”

The answer is so earnest and unabashed that Johnny can’t help but bark a laugh. Shortly, Bill joins in with his own hair-raising chuckles.

Bull likes being in the middle, and as it turns out, Johnny and Bill don’t mind one bit.


End file.
